


The Patriot

by ngc4889, thural



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bondage, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Power Play, Roughness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ngc4889/pseuds/ngc4889, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thural/pseuds/thural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just as the commander said. Lay a trap, an’ eventually the fuckin’ squirrels’ll crawl right into it."</p>
<p>Set pre-Witcher 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The dungeon stinks to Iorveth’s nose. The stench of dh’oine filth, the reek of fungus, ages old, clinging inward upon cracks within the stonework. He can smell the lingering odor of the body that had been left untouched just a half day too long, the body that was incapable of withstanding the methods employed by the esteemed military unit, the Blue Stripes. Iorveth could feel the dank depth of the prison with every inward breath, and permeating it all, the metallic tang of his own blood as it dried within his nose. His surroundings smelled, yes, but Iorveth was far from offended. Dismal conditions were nothing more than a psychological trick meant to break men far less than him. Throw the severed heads of comrades back into a home encampment in the dark of night, imprison men with the brutalized bodies of their dying companions - these tactics would not work upon the elf, not when he employed the same methods himself, not when the very foundation of his legendary reputation was built upon such cruelty.

It’s in silence that Iorveth waits. There are none of his fellows imprisoned with him to conspire with in quiet elven tongue, unintelligible to their jailers—for that matter, Iorveth must wonder who yet lives from his ambushed squad. He can vividly recall, back in the thick of the woods, the two elves that had fallen immediately, as if struck by lightening. It took but a moment for Iorveth to reflexively draw his sword at the sound of the first crossbow’s bolt being shot, and just as quickly, a third elf immediately to his right dropped. Everything beyond that moment happened too quickly - the forest seemingly birthing every cursed body adorned in blue and white, the ease with which Iorveth managed to sink his blade into the belly of the closest foe. Then there was the strike that hit him from behind, and the realization that they must have had it hammered into their head by this point— _the whoreson’s missing an eye for fuck’s sake. I don’t know what bigger advantage you could ask for._ Iorveth’s next breath had come in two parts, first as an elvish curse at the mace that smashed the blade from his hand, then a vitriolic scream of anger as he was thrown down and bound. The boot to his ribs was added for good measure, certainly, and in his moment of breathlessness, Iorveth could hear the escape of one elf through the underbrush, and the agonized moan of another. A moment of silence, and then the ugly, victorious guffaw of the man standing above him. ‘ _Just as the commander said. Lay a trap, an’ eventually the fuckin’ squirrels’ll crawl right into it._ ’ 

It wasn’t fair for Iorveth to call his company a squad, though. Their numbers had been too far destroyed thanks to the efficient post-war work of the Temarian special forces. Today’s victory had to be nothing more than child’s play to Vernon Roche.

He’d carry an extra blade, Iorveth resolved to himself in his isolation. An extra weapon, lest his enemies ever again found the arrogance to think him predictable. Still, it’s a vow that does little to soothe the storm of his soul, and most certainly, the dungeon itself does little to quell the agitation Iorveth feels within his gut. He had yet to sit, instead opting to stand centered within the cell, unmoving from where he had been left and locked away. The guards had been swift to disarm him, unsurprisingly, his weapons lost to him back at the battle site, and then any protective gear upon his entry to the prison. His gloves, his boots - ah, but to remove his coat, they had needed to untie him, and in that moment, the elf had seen a seemingly final bid for freedom. His weight thrown against one solider had been enough to displace the man, but one of the guards that stood outside Iorveth’s door at that very moment had been the one to pacify the elf by use of his fist. A ringing head and one bloody nose later, and Iorveth was sufficiently barricaded away, wrists rebound, pride hurt above all else.

Finally, though, he moves, turning to face the cell’s sole door, a heavy oaken thing. He wants to curse the guards that stand on the other side of it, to tell them in detail every way in which he would end them. He would wear their teeth upon leather cords round his neck, he would leave them tied within range of the nastiest nekker nest he could find. A drake’s fire would seem a merciful bath in comparison to the acidic concoction Iorveth would acquire to smear upon their flesh. He would relish in every scream and savor every whimper. Their bids for mercy would lay poetic upon his ears and-

But Iorveth knows his words would garner a scorned laugh at best. These humans could never possess a sense of severity great enough to comprehend the ire they had garnered, ire that manifests itself in a snarl upon Iorveth’s face, an ugly expression directed towards the heavy oaken door standing between him and his captors. It’s an idle movement, the way he raises his bound hands to wipe what blood remains upon his lip off onto his sleeve, and the first step closer to the door that he takes comes silent, aided by his bare feet. He possessed zero interest in the idle conversation of the commandos—especially given that their current topic of discussion focused on lewd jokes about dwarven women—but the sooner he could eavesdrop upon potentially revealing discussion, the sooner a plan of escape could start to form…

“-an’ he’s down there drinking away his sorrow over his passed wife, an’ he says, ‘ _It’s amazing’ how little people care,_ ’ an’ I tell him, I says to him, ‘ _Hey, mate, I care, really,_ ’ an’ he takes a moment an’ then goes, ‘ _No, no, I mean… I’m talking about that dwarf whore gave me a free suck._ ’”

Their laughs comes synchronized and disgusting, an affront to Iorveth’s ears. He takes another step closer, nearing in enough that he can just catch sight of either man, the backs of their heads visible through the barred peep window cut into the wood of the door. The moment they notice he’s roused himself into moving, Iorveth knows they’ll be cruel in their words, endless in jest towards him, and utterly useless, devoid of what tiny worth they could potentially hold. Was it too much to hope for, though? A vague mention of a change in guard, perhaps? Quiet discussion of prison protocol as the evening pulled into night? Iorveth takes a third step, an action that coincides with the immediate silence of the guards outside, and in a held breath, he waits for their attention to turn upon him, certain that he must have been noticed. They don’t turn, though, and the elf can tell that it is something outside the cell that distracts them, something more severe and demanding than their experiences in the brothels of their travels. They straighten up, Iorveth can tell, an air of professionalism falling upon them, and together, they speak the sole word that falls as poison upon the elf’s ears.

“Commander!”

There is nothing given in return to them, though. No footsteps, no acknowledgement. Perhaps a gesture? Iorveth can’t tell, and he does little to enlighten himself, instead choosing to revert back to his original position at the center of the cell. He observes what he can with some amount of interest as the guards gather themselves and clear out, and already, Iorveth can feel the bile building in his throat. What loathing had already been lurking in his stomach feels amplified, a twisting of rage that makes the elf clench his jaw, tighter with each moment now that he can hear it—the steady sound of footsteps approaching, solid and purposeful and fearless—and Iorveth knows what man draws forth, each rapid beat of his heart bringing them ever closer. So close that Iorveth knows that were his hands not bound, were there not a wall and door and bars between them… He would lash out. He would tear and claw and break. Iorveth would leave nothing of the other man, he would destroy him as no other could—as no other _would_. None were as worthy of the honor as the elf, and Iorveth would wear his claimed badge of Temarian lilies with sadistic pride.

It’s in the last moment that Iorveth steels himself, for he knows the sight of face that will appear in the barred window will come as a punch in his gut. A face, he had realized, was absent from the day’s earlier assault. Would _his_ attendance have made this moment less bitter for Iorveth? No. Never, and the face that shows itself in the window curls Iorveth’s lip upwards in disgust, his eye narrowing to meet the callous stare of the other man. Were his hands free, Iorveth might feel inclined to make a sweeping gesture, a mockery of a bow in celebration of his foe’s victory. Instead, he speaks, his words spat as if venom.

“ _Vernon Roche_. Are you feeling proud this day? I would imagine so, though I cannot imagine why, aside from the obvious. Is this a new trend, forfeiting the battlefield to your subordinates? Let me admit my disappointment at not finding you upon the end of my blade today.”


	2. Chapter 2

He'd thought about it, the lea at the edge of the western forest, cast into shadow as the sun sets. Iorveth was sure to hug the river until the verge of the brush, then come south, entering the woods where a creek excavated an easy and untraceable path between tall sandy banks. Advantage: it would be impossible to track him and his band, impossible even to see them, if you weren't already above. They'd be at the border in six hours and under the cover of night to boot. Disadvantage: if you knew Iorveth, which Vernon Roche did, you would know where he'd flee, the same way the hound knows to follow the fox' scent. A narrow alley like that, once it was discovered, was as good as a noose around the neck. The Blue Stripes were waiting when the elves arrived. They'd flanked Iorveth's band and the creek ran crimson. What a pleasure to capture the cunning leader.

Vernon drove the wagon back personally, not trusting the task to anyone else.

The first few miles, Ves saw him look back at the bounty in the wagon sharp and often. Any unexpected sound was enough to make him start. Eventually he called the train to a halt, dropped down, approached the prisoner, and shackled the unconscious elf's wrists and ankles. Then he took a step back and cast a glance at the wagon railings, the wheels, the axles. None of it pleased him, by his serious frown. Eventually he took off his own belt and ran it around the elf's shackles and dragged it over the mantle to the seat. When he had this tether, he was at last at ease: the horses' reins in one hand and his belt in the other, the one loose and the other in a grip that made the leather of his gloves creak. It was a strange wrenched up position for the prisoner as well. All the blood ran out of Iorveth's hands, hauled up like that, so his skin was pale beneath the blood and dirt.

It was a cool, hay-scented evening and quick to purple. The dark made Vernon more watchful; then again, everything made Vernon more watchful on this occasion. The men lit torches, but their captain traveled in advance of the light. The glare would throw off his perception. They drove to the castle, a black form looming against the moon, a few windows bright in the night: a beacon. When the castle gate groaned behind them, Vernon unclenched his jaw, but not his grip. "Paxon, Dobrie!" He shouted. "Get over here and take this whoreson off my hands."

Paxon ran over first and Vernon impractically attempted to hand the end of the belt to him. Dobrie, a little faster on the uptake, got up in the back of the wagon to collect the prisoner bodily.

"Take him below," said Vernon. "And don't kill him." Which meant that everything up to that would be allowed.

As Dobrie hauled the body over his shoulder, Vernon spat, "And don't take your eye off him."

"Aye sir. Or can I take 'is eye off 'im?"

Paxon, Dobrie, Rillett, and the others guffawed at this, but Vernon smiled an unnerving half-smile that rose hairs on the back of Ves' neck.

"I want him to see, for a little longer. Ves, come."

He marched off towards the keep and Ves dismounted quickly to follow him.

It was warmer in the grey walls of the keep. They held on so to the summer heat. Vernon walked quickly, so much so that Ves had to canter to keep up as they passed the galleries, the great hall, beyond the kitchens with their stink of waste and wood smoke as slaves struggled to clean up after dinner. "Pay attention. I'm going to interrogate the elf tonight. I want no interruptions, including you."

"If you like," she said, a touch sulky.

"I'm going to post you at the bottom of the tower--"

"The tower!"

"--I'll not chance it, giving him anything with more than one route out. I'm going to post you at the bottom of the tower, see to it that no-one comes in or out. Bar it from the outside. And whatever you hear, _do not open the door._ "

She knew better than to ask what he was going to do to Iorveth. It was fine that she wouldn't have to watch. Best to hope that she wouldn't have to clean it up.

Vernon noted her silence and cut in, "You'll outfit the room. See that it's comfortable. Food, drink, have them change the rushes on the bed. A bloody gilded chamber pot." A few more quick steps. Vernon was making for the king's private quarters, and doing it by a very roundabout route. "...Have a bath put up there too. He may want to wash."

"...You're going to let him?"

"I'm going to let him strip himself, yes. If he's stupid enough to do it willingly. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. What if he attacks?"

"I like my chances. In the worst case, he's still imprisoned. And Ves," He stopped abruptly and turned to her. She nearly ran into him, and her soft mouth opened to betray her surprise. "I cannot trust anyone else with this." His gaze fell to bare center of her chest. He slotted his fingers under the ties of her open shirt and tugged it to cover up more of her, then clapped her shoulder lightly. "Go now. I must report to Foltest."

* * *

"Commander!" Paxon shouted as Vernon descended into this most rank and bloody crevice. Rats bolted from their pissburnt straw nests at the noise, skittering over the clammy dungeon cobblestones to perceived safety.

"Stand down, Paxon." He answered, by way of letting Paxon return to his dice and sack.

"Ee only roused for a bit, sir. Made an attempt. Fast enough we got 'im back in chains. Strung up in there like a side o' beef now, and _tenderized_."

Rillett laughed at that. Dobrie had been losing too hard and too often to laugh at anything, but he nodded his thick head.

Nasty smiles all around when Vernon said, "Good work. Now I need a moment of privacy with our guest. You need another bottle?"

"Nah, we're up to our arseholes innit." Rillett answered, flinging a hand at the stack of bottles on a barrel near an empty cell.

Vernon approached the cell.

“ _Vernon Roche_. Are you feeling proud this day? I would imagine so, though I cannot imagine why, aside from the obvious. Is this a new trend, forfeiting the battlefield to your subordinates? Let me admit my disappointment at not finding you upon the end of my blade today.”

"Hello, Iorveth." He turned the heavy lock and entered. As soon as he did, he shuttered the window and locked the door behind him. Flickering torchlight glinted off Iorveth's chains. Vernon sized him up: his prisoner, bound and chained to the wall, his long body stained with blood and his boots covered in shit. He closed the distance between them with a step and plowed a fist into the elf's jowl so brutally the smack sent up a cheer from outside.

The next thing he did was force his face up with a hand under the elf's chin and mash his dry, clean lips against Iorveth's bloody mess of a mouth. His tongue pushed in and slid over the elf's teeth, tasting salt, filth, and copper. It was fast; he wasn't foolish enough to leave room for Iorveth to get a bite in. The hot feeling of Iorveth's flesh hung in his glove afterwards.

Dispassionately he spat out the blood he'd collected, and he wiped the back of his mouth on his sleeve as he stepped back. His cold eyes intentionally met Iorveth's.

"Disgusting." Before the elf could offer his own opinions on the matter, he continued on factually: "I've a bargain for you, squirrel. If you could call it that. It's more like: you could agree, or I'll have you hung in the morning."

Iorveth regarded him with a cold silence and the taste of sweet wine on the skin of his teeth. Finally he said, "Is that it? And what makes you think I would agree to any bargain proposed by _you_. Just kill me now, unless you lack even _that_ much courage."

"Fine." Vernon drew the sword from the sheath at his hip. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather hear my terms, first? I'd take my time killing you." With a filip of his wrist he cut a long, light scratch on the inside of Iorveth's arm.

Iorveth did not give him the pleasure of wincing or flinching. "You couldn't possibly offer me anything I want."

"You've a chance to free yourself." Came the dry response. "At least you could spend the night somewhere nicer than this shitheap." He gestured around them with a swoosh of his blade.

"Your bedroom, dh'oine? I'd cut your throat and your king's before the night was over."

"My bed, but not my bedroom. And supper. And a bath." He said it to clearly indicate what he thought of the elf's stench. As for the rest, it wasn't worth quibbling over. Not after their previous encounter.

"My life's not worth that. Can't imagine my arse would be either. Or is it the arse you want?" The elf's tone became mocking. The idea of being clean and fed had a powerful lure. The idea of being free had a yet more powerful one. But Vernon was not the sort to hand these things over. There would be a cost. How heavy?

Vernon did not give him the pleasure of rising to the bait. "Do you accept or not?"

"What are the terms."

"You'll spend the night in my company. I will ask you some questions. If I like the answers, I may lose track of you on the way to the gallows. If not..."

"That's it? Just some questions? You're joking, surely."

At this Vernon approached again. His unnervingly steady eyes searched him. He lifted his free hand and pulled up the kerchief that lay over the ruined half of Iorveth's face. He spoke as soft as he'd ever spoke in his life. "I'd have you again, Iorveth." He rubbed the elf's scars with his thumb. "Though if you tried to kill me I'd hang you by your own intestines. Say yes, or say no."

"You'd betray your king for a plow?"

"No. He has no use for your corpse, not just yet. There is something you can do for him. Say yes, or say no."

The tip of his sword dug into Iorveth's throat.

Iorveth spat in his face, a red smear that oozed down Vernon's high hard cheek. "Untie me, bastard."


	3. Chapter 3

Vernon was making it difficult for Iorveth to keep a clear head. The elf could take a punch, yes, even one delivered with the strength of an ox, but between the stonework of the wall catching his head as he stumbled a step back, and then the commander grabbing him, smothering him—the feel of Roche’s tongue within his mouth feels greedy, and to Iorveth, it feels like the conclusion to a longstanding torture has been grabbed from him. It’s easy to recall _that_ night, the one weeks ago, where they had been nothing but teeth and flesh and sweat and hands furiously grasping at another. Iorveth had been cruel then, the way he maintained a hairsbreadth distance between their lips, never letting them touch, their breath forced to intertwine intimately together. Ultimately, Vernon had cursed, and Iorveth had bit the commander’s lower lip—

* * *

Their ascent up the tower might well have been the climb up to the gallows, and it was in a severe silence that Iorveth lead, ever aware of the sword held immediately behind him, a guaranteed failsafe to insure his compliance in his transfer of space. His posture was not one of a doomed man, though, and he strode with ease, _confidence_ even, despite the dull throb in his head and the ache in his jaw. Let Vernon’s men cheer for their commander’s conquests, but Iorveth would not let them see him as a defeated elf. As much was evidenced in the way he had replaced the bandana over his face before even leaving the dungeon cell, his first action as an unshackled man. The elf felt no shame over his scarring, but the evidence of his vulnerability was not Vernon’s to admire—or whatever that had been—nor the lowly soldier’s to gawk at in passing, acquiring fodder for later jests. It hadn’t stopped them from sneering as he passed, of course, and even Ves had a scowl and a sharp look reserved just for Iorveth, a look that spoke silent volumes— _if you make any attempt - if you wound him - if anyone dies tonight_ —but ultimately she shouldered her crossbow comfortably, and opened the way into the tower at a nod from her superior.

Each upward step comes with the uncomfortable reminder that if Iorveth were to find any leverage for his situation, his window of opportunity rapidly closes. Every slot of a window they pass tells him how high they’ve climbed, how much closer they draw to isolation, to a place where things like _honor_ and _promises_ would mean nothing. What would be awaiting Iorveth at the other side, aside from the vague suggestion of freedom? He needed something more solid.

“I’ve agreed to your questioning, Vernon, but if you want truthful answers, you will need to guarantee me that I’ll find my gear come morning. Every blade that was confiscated, every arrow that was within my quiver. I’ll want my mail, and fresh boots from your stores.” They’re demands that elicit a noise of derision from Roche, a noise that he couples with a forward jab of his sword towards Iorveth’s spine, a jab that says _keep moving_.

“You’ll give me honest answers if you don’t want every tooth pulled from your skull, elf. You’ve no right to negotiate. Need I remind you, you are a _prisoner_.” For the first time, Iorveth looks back at the other man, coolly and unconcerned. It’s a look that makes Roche clench his jaw in irritation. It wouldn’t be out of Iorveth’s range to feed him answers that would amount to nothing more than piles of gilded shit, their stench only revealed once they had sat too long. Elves were prone to unnecessary poetics, and deciphering their words produced nothing but varying levels of frustration. And Vernon knew Iorveth would do it, wax on and on, both in common tongue and elder speech, just to push him to the edge of his patience.

It would be nothing but a waste of time, time that Vernon didn’t possess. 

“It works in your favor that your belongings haven’t been destroyed yet, Iorveth. You are a unique incident, the kind of man we would ultimately see strung up in his full ensemble. Let the people witness the end of the frightening savage, quelled by the might of Temaria. Stop stalling. Though the door now.”

What had Iorveth been expecting of the tower? Pushing open the door revealed a room better than the barracks the soldiers below them would be relegated to for the night, certainly. In a cruel twist, though Iorveth felt more unease looking at the bedroom’s holdings than he had trapped within the cell below the earth. Back there, at least, no extremes existed. It was him, the bare jail, and whoever would join him. That was _easy_. Here, though—everything was placed by Roche’s command. There was food and a washbasin, as promised, and a fire burning in the hearth. It was easy to look for dangers, an unconscious natural reaction, even, and reaction that Iorveth wore well behind a placid expression. Ah, but… Vernon had made his motives clear, and Iorveth pulled his head to look back towards the other man as Roche closed the door behind him. They would talk.

Talk and fuck.

“Acquaint yourself, squirrel.” With the sound of Vernon sheathing his sword, Iorveth steps forth, his stride slow and comfortable. He first winds his way round the small table, pausing only to look down upon the offered food. Grapes a day too wilted. Slices of bread, a loaf that spent too long in the oven. It’s idly that he flips a small wedge of cheese over, revealing a thin layer of mold that a kitchen worker had been too lazy to slice away. Still, it was a better offering than Iorveth’s usual forest rations, and picking up a piece of bread, he brings it to his nose to smell. There’s no hint of detectable poison, no seeds baked in that would cause him harm—

“I believe you had questions for me.” There’s the hint of Vernon nodding, an action that Iorveth catches within what remains of peripheral vision, and then the settling of the other man against the doorframe, arms folded solidly across his chest. It was almost unnerving— _almost_ —the commander’s unwavering stare.

“Before the beating you and your men took earlier today—“ Words that make Iorveth drop the bread back down to the table in disgust, and already he turns to face away from Vernon, hands defensively finding their way to his hips. “—the last confirmed sighting of your band was further north, unexpectedly, in Redania. You skirted the city of Rinde, and made camp for one night. Some merchants claim they made trade with Scoia'tael that wandered close. What was there for you, elf? Any of your people up there?” Iorveth will choose his answers carefully, Vernon knows as much, so the elf’s initial pause comes as no surprise. On the other hand, the scorned sound of a laugh comes abrupt, coupled with Iorveth turning to face Roche once more, spreading his hands in a gesture that says he has nothing to hide.

“ _Hah_. Will you truly not take this moment to continue on? I would think you would _savor_ it, to tell me the detailed deaths of my kind. You are far from the only man that takes pleasure in the destruction of elves, Vernon Roche. I was in the north to begin with. Rinde was merely a detour to collect the cache of a fallen squadron. As for visiting the city itself, I’m afraid you’ve cursed yourself. The elves who ventured forth are currently rotting in a creek bed thanks to the efficient work of your men. I know they sought fresh wares, but if they contacted anyone within the city itself, then that was of their own affair. Unless you employ a sorceress that will raise them from the dead, I have no answers for you.” Was it the kind of response Vernon wanted? Probably not, though Iorveth did offer some small insights. The group he had been traveling with must have been one half of a larger whole, for no excess of supplies had been on them, implying that this supposed cache resided with another band of elves. The idea that the last remnants of Scoia’tael were trying to reform wasn’t a new one, especially to the special forces commander. Anyone who worked in intelligence knew that the broken elvish forces were desperately clinging to the last fraying thread of a dead ideal, Iorveth included. It would take nothing less than a miracle to revive the bloody squirrels into some semblance of a competent force.

In the commander’s moment of contemplation, Iorveth resumes his idle trek of the room, circling the washbasin once before pushing a stool closer with his foot. Before he sits, though, he makes to pull his bloodstained shirt off in one sweep over his head, a sweep that loses the natural grace of his elven nature as he makes a low, quiet groan, trapped in his throat. Somewhere in the skirmishes he had faced throughout the day, he must have suffered a broken rib. That, coupled with the ache stretching down his arms… well, his body would heal quicker than his ego. Iorveth tells himself his pains are nothing he can’t survive as he reaches upwards, his fingers feeling the folds of the scarf tied round his head until he can find a loose point, and with ease, he lets it unravel into his palms, discarding the fabric alongside his shirt. Purposefully, Iorveth sits, his back to the other man, and taking up a nearby washcloth. He dips it into the tub, the water a tepid temperature—hardly an issue to the elf used to bathing in the brooks of mountain runoffs—and first washes the immediate filth from his hands. The slice Vernon bestowed upon his forearm stings at contact, as if reminding the elf that it’s there, fresh and angry, and wiping the cloth over it only insures that it’ll resume bleeding.

“Very well, Iorveth, but you fail to answer another issue that’s been plaguing me. Prior to your foray into Redania, you were reported to be further south. You cross Temaria, lacking all fear as you do so, yet you seem very purposeful in the way you divert through the Pontar region, regardless of direction you head in.” For the first time since his entry to the room, Vernon takes a step forth, his eyes focused on Iorveth’s figure, looking for any sign of discomfort in the direction their words took. A tensing of shoulders, the unconscious nervous shaking of a leg, a waver in tone of voice—any of it, and Roche would hook on and drive the spike deeper.

“Who do you meet there? Tell me everyone you know in the Pontar Valley.”

Iorveth’s breath doesn’t falter, nor does his posture change, but he can’t stop his hand, the way it slows as he drags the cloth away from wiping at his face and around to clean the dirt from his neck. It’s a movement that Vernon latches onto, his gaze carefully following the elf’s hand until it coincides with the reaching leaves of Iorveth’s tattoo. It’s easy, from there, to follow the natural progression of archer’s muscle that grace the elf’s back, and from there, a red scar that had many months of healing before it. That scar, the way it wrapped in a straight line across Iorveth’s side—it marked the first time Vernon had heard Iorveth scream, the moment the commander’s iron had sliced into the elf’s flesh at their first meeting. Ah, but sword nor spear felled the renegade. Would any mortal weapon be capable of it?

“Answer.”

“Does it surprise you? Aedirn holds Dol Blathanna. Elves should be expected to flock in that direction in droves.” Key word being ‘ _should_ ’. It had been ages since Iorveth had set foot anywhere near the Valley of Flowers, and it would be ages more before he returned, if ever. “The Pontar Valley acts merely as easy venue. There exists nothing but dusty dwarven towns and more farmland than any dh’oine knows how to make use of.” Silence as Iorveth pulls his cloth forward again, a moment to rinse it in the tub, and then he resumes washing, first his shoulders, and then his chest.

“You said your king needed aid. What do you get at? Does Foltest plan to make moves against the Pontar? Do you hope I’ll reveal the most dangerous of the region so that your men might conveniently dispose of them?” He turns to look back at the commander, a sneering smirk on his face. It’s a smirk that says, _yes_ , Iorveth has names—names he would readily spill in order to mask _her_ presence in the valley, truthfully—but it is information that he’s unwilling to simply spill. “Ah, but maybe you’re concerned that certain alliances have been built? That _would_ be a mess, were Redania to strike back against any expansion Foltest attempted.” Iorveth pauses just long enough in the hope that his words make Vernon wonder, long enough that the silence between them grows tense, but then, with eye narrowed mockingly, in perhaps the most honest thing Iorveth could say that night-

“It happened only once, and never again, Vernon Roche. The Scoia’tael will bow to no king.”

“How fortunate, then, that King Foltest requests _your_ assistance, and yours only.” There’s a hint of irritation in the commander’s voice, frustration that Iorveth would try to lead him in circles. “Politcs don’t suit you, so shut your mouth and listen to what I have to say.”

“There is an aen seidhe woman sought. She goes by the name Isolde Bwyrachein, and her reputation would have one believe that she is a seer. Some two months ago, reports state that she prophesied that the heir to the Temarien throne lives yet, and the king takes this to mean his daughter. He desires knowledge of what the elf said, but given her proud history, Isolde’s visions are a thing readily kept from human ears, and knowing that a king seeks her out, she’s disappeared. All evidence suggests that she had aid in escaping into the Pontar region.” He asks no question, but Vernon knows he doesn’t need to. It’s on Iorveth’s face, the consideration. If he didn’t know of the seer, his expression would be one of disinterest, and instead, his one eye is kept on the other man, looking between both of Roche’s eyes, seeking any unspoken information. When he opens his mouth, it might seem that he’ll make a thoughtful inquiry, but-

“Is this the daughter that Foltest planted within his own sister’s womb? I had heard the child a monstrous thing, that the very sight of it killed Adda the moment she birthed it—” It was always a fun story for his band to recount on cold night. Iorveth felt it perfectly encapsulated the depravity of humans. 

Vernon is on him in a flash, a firm hand shoved against the elf’s head with every intent to slam it against the edge of the basin, or perhaps to push Iorveth forth beneath the tub’s surface. While true, drowning would be a more merciful death from the commander, Iorveth knew his words would deliver him beyond a tipping point with the other man. There’s just enough time to react, to throw his hands up against the washbasin’s edges, just enough space to press back against Vernon’s strength. Iorveth can hear the other man’s snarl at the resistance he faces, but quick to adapt, Vernon digs his fingers into Iorveth’s hair and yanks, pulling the other man’s head back uncomfortably. Somewhere in that space, a dagger had found its way into Roche’s other hand, and as he swallows, Iorveth can feel the blade pressed to his throat.

“—it is all rumor, _of course_. ” Rumor that had long spread to the quiet corners of every major kingdom, but never mind that.

“Mind your tongue, squirrel, and who it speaks of. You’ll have a much more difficult time commanding your raiding parties without it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Iorveth craned his face around at the end of his long, fine neck, struggling against the hand that pinned him down. Vernon looked back at him.

"Nothing to add?"

"No." 

Some of the ferocity went out of Vernon's grip. His focus drifted lower, contemplatively, and then his hands followed to hold Iorveth's narrow hips. A good firm hold, not punishing. He pushed himself up against Iorveth's ass. No spare flesh here, just familiar firmness. A perfect ass. He saw it in his mind's eye still, emerging from suede breeches, pale and beautiful.

"You improve from the neck down, elf."

Resentment, and heat, pressed down on Iorveth's tongue. He remained braced against the stand, with his arms tight and his backside shoved up against Vernon's taut body. A heavy silence, a detente, where neither man moved nor spoke. Finally his wrists flexed and he swung himself upright. When he pulled away from Vernon, he was released without struggle.

"I haven't agreed to your bargain yet, dh'oine."

But he turned and leaned against the washstand instead of moving away. He was looking at Vernon with a calm and critical eye. Of all the dh'oine who ever cursed the land with their presence, none were beautiful, and some were as ugly as a sow's teat too long sucked. Vernon in particular was a dh'oine's dh'oine, of unimpressive height, heavy clothes, hair on his chest _and_ back, apparently migrants from his thinning pate, and stubble like a forest's underbrush. Narrow eyes and narrow lips. A sadistic glare. The sort of dh'oine meant for scary stories to tell to children. In his favor, his grip could crush a stone, and he could track a flea through a fire if the flea had to do with Temeria's interests. And there were conditions under which his word could be trusted.

Vernon, who gave not a single shit about being subjected to Iorveth's observation, sat himself at the edge of the big wooden tub and started pulling off his gloves. "You've questions. Ask them."

"You could ask some other elf, why me."

The gloves were lightly flung upon the washstand, narrowly missing Iorveth. "You're uncompromised. Nobody would suspect you of assisting Temaria's king. You might even be looking for the girl to hostage against him." His medallion joined the gloves with a fearsome clank.

Iorveth frowned. "You killed seventeen of my people."

"You'd have done the same to me, if you could have." The reply was swift and frank. "And you'd not have left me alive. If you need a moment to mourn them, I would wait on the other side of the door."

The offer was courteous, in its rough fashion. Iorveth felt no unease upon hearing it. But the idea of mourning the lost in the castle of their killer was repulsive; he had not bothered with sorrow yet, nor would he, until he slept free again. His nose wrinkled in disgust.  "And then? You want me to sell my reputation as you put a hand down my pants."

Vernon unwound the binder and lifted his hat from his head, and the white skullcap beneath. His bald spot had grown larger since Iorveth last saw him hatless. His short, dark hair was threaded with premature grey. "No-one else knows of this. I don't intend to tell it." It was bad enough that he would have to answer for losing the most important captive he'd ever secured.

"What of your king?"

"You've got his balls in your hand, have you not? What else do you want?"

He had an answer for everything. Repugnant, Iorveth thought. The habits of a man who talks more than he fights. "So he's in favor of this plan. Or is it more than favor? Will he be peeping through some secret hole to watch a non-human fuck his favorite pet dh'oine..."

The loose ease on Vernon's face vanished instantly. His sword squealed as he drew it from its sheath. For the moment the tip pointed down, a menacing glint, but anger was plain in Vernon's voice, and he was poised to strike. "I'll write an etiquette lesson on your ploughing tits if you like. I said no-one knows of this."

"...Fine, Roche." Considering thoughtfully how the next time he had a sword in his hand, he would put it through Vernon Roche's hairy neck without hesitation. Foltest must want this news badly to constrain his dog so. And it wasn't information that would make any strategic difference, not to the aen sidhe. The perverted lineages of human kings were a business for troubadours alone. And he would be free. "I'll take your charge."

Vernon searched his face, but even so, he began to put his blade away. Iorveth continued, blithely. "But on my terms. If you want your news coming back to you plainly, I have to move unconstrained. Don't think you can have me followed. And _don't_ rush me."

The sword slid home with a clank. Vernon's reply was tight with irritation. "All the time in the world? Very nice. How can I know whether you bother to do the job?"

"It's a chance you will have to take if you want it done at all. Naturally," He added, "You'll pay me, as well."

Vernon glared at him and Iorveth's single eye stared back, unwavering. The king's dog was calculating. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the torches cast a warm, dim light that flickered over the still surface of the water in the tub. For a moment, Iorveth even thought, by his total silence, that Vernon would say no. Then they would fight in earnest.

"...Agreed. You'll have it. Your gear, your time. No trackers. I can give you 200 orens out of my purse now, more when you return."

"How _much_ more."

"As fits a king's remembrance, swine." He dug around in a panel of his coat and withdrew a leather purse, which he flung at Iorveth. Iorveth caught it neatly. This seemed to irritate Vernon yet further; consequently Iorveth almost smiled. "There's your money. Now prove your loyalty."

Iorveth opened his mouth to administer some casual insults but caught himself, just before _is this how you treat all your whores? No wonder you've got nobody left to bed but your enemies._ That bit of conversation filled him with the suggestion of more danger than he wanted to deal with while he was unarmed. Instead he shook his head and approached his captor. Vernon didn't stink too badly, he'd give him that. His clothes were clean. Another dh'oine would have gone castle-soft, living in this kind of luxury. The hand that dropped onto Vernon's bare head was not stiff or hesitant. Iorveth murmured, "You've gotten balder."

"Does it matter?" He replied, testy. He put his own bare human hand on Iorveth's exposed chest. His fingers were hot.

Iorveth did not answer. Instead he pulled the ties of Vernon's coat free. He dipped a hand under the open front of the coat, feeling the unbroken mailcoat beneath. Vernon released a soft breath as Iorveth rubbed a palm over his well-covered nipple - adept Iorveth had remembered, from their last encounter...

But he must have felt the heat of another hand near his hip. Brutally, he snatched Iorveth's straying fingers away from the hilt of his sword.

"You had to."

Iorveth cocked his head back and stared down at him, defiant. When he tried to pull his hand away Vernon's grip redoubled and cold steel touched his wrist. A shackle. Roche had tucked cuffs into his belt. "Don't!" Iorveth warned, trying to drag his hand away. Vernon clamped the cuffs shut around one wrist. As Iorveth shot a whistling punch at his head Vernon took it with a low, red-faced growl, and slammed Iorveth's back against the stone wall. He grabbed his arm above the elbow to ruthlessly pin and cuff him with a dexterity born of pure frustration.

"You _had to._ " He sneered.

Iorveth snarled and bucked him, swinging his bound wrists at Vernon's jaw. But cuffed, Iorveth's physical superiority was stoppered; Vernon easily caught the blow and added to its momentum - flinging Iorveth back, turned, spun, his marred face slammed against the wall. Vernon shoved up against him hard from behind. There was cruelty in his strength now, and he ground his hips against Iorveth's ass. Fervor charged his voice, and regret, too. "Is this what you wanted, eh? Hard and rough, that's how you like it..." Ignoring Iorveth's struggling, he dipped in and neatly bit his beautiful pointed ear. His teeth hung on it, relentless as a bulldog's, and he hissed out his words around it even as his hand crammed down the front of Iorveth's trousers to grab his dick.

"I'd have liked to suck this. I was prepared to set pride aside. What a pity." His muscles strained happily against Iorveth's as the elf fought his grip. "I'm going to have to fuck you instead."


	5. Chapter 5

_I’m going to have to fuck you instead._

They’re words that echo through Iorveth’s skull, words whose throaty tone reverberate a chill down his spine. It’s a sensation he might have found pleasure in were his face not so unpleasantly shoved against stone, were the other man’s teeth not so vicious upon his ear. He curses, hissed words of Elder Speech, thick with venom that only a man such as Vernon Roche could elicit forth, and Vernon savors the moment. He remained firm against Iorveth’s lean body, shameless in the way his hand found the elf’s cock. The lack of space between their bodies and wall kept Roche from offering any amount of focused attention, but his hand is warm and his grip strong. He can feel Iorveth still beneath him, shoulders tense, and the elf’s lips part to let out a heavy exhale. In turn, Vernon relented upon his bite, his tongue grazing the point of the other man’s ear as he pulled his mouth away. A moment of silence passed before Iorveth directed his gaze back, as best as he could manage, in Roche’s direction. An unimpressed look, ultimately, though delivered through a heavy lid. It grinds at him, that Vernon would lord a sense of superiority, as if a pair shackles and a hand upon his cock would be the end-all to Iorveth’s conniving and machinations. Vernon knew better than that.

“Don’t mistake what you think I _deserve_ as a _preference_ , dh’oine.” With every word, Iorveth felt the stone irritate his flesh. He’d have scrapes to match his scars. He needed room. “If that’s a game you wish to play, I promise you’ll have a hard time claiming victory.” His hips moved first, matching the pressure that Roche pushed forth, and Iorveth found himself afforded a single step back, a step enforced by Vernon’s knee planting itself between Iorveth’s legs. 

“Still, for starters, we can revisit the suggestion of the best use for your mouth-“

“Don’t test me, you bloody elf.” The breath of Roche’s words come hot on the back of Iorveth’s neck and his lips grazed flesh as he spoke, and as he did so, Vernon let his free hand drop downwards, taking hold of Iorveth’s hip. It would be false to suggest that granting the elf his modicum of space was an act of kindness on Roche’s behalf. It wasn’t. There was no move he would willingly let Iorveth make that he couldn’t react to, and part of this strategy was forbidding Iorveth the time to _think_ of his next maneuver. He doesn’t want Iorveth to scheme. He wants Iorveth to bend beneath him, mentally and physically pushed to a point of breaking. He wants to hear the elf scream. In pain? Ecstasy? Regardless, the thought makes Vernon’s hand move, his thumb first running over the head of the elf’s cock followed by a slow downward stroke with a grip that firms at the base of Iorveth’s hardening length. 

The sharp sound of iron shackles scraping down stone masks the shaky breath that escapes Iorveth, breath that he quickly clenches his teeth over. He can feel the fingers at his hip tighten—acknowledgement from Roche that Iorveth’s movement doesn’t go unnoticed—but unimpeded, his arms slipped downwards, stopped just short above his head. Rapidly, it felt as if his routes of action were closing. There had to be some method of escape, some seam at which to press…

“I accept your bargain—“ Iorveth shifted his weight, pressing against Vernon’s leg between his own in hopes of making the commander budge. Nothing. “I take your _coin_ —“ Pressing back against Roche only delivers Iorveth unto a wall of exposed chainmail, mail that pushes back defensively, cold against his skin. “You present _food_ and _bath_ —“ His words are spoken through his teeth, enunciated with further struggle from Iorveth. A twisting of his shoulders, first in one direction, then the other, an attempt to get a leg up just enough to find leverage against the wall… Success found itself in the form of Roche’s hand removing itself from Iorveth’s arousal, instead placing itself on the hip opposite its counterpart. In the same movement, the commander fortified his stance, and twisted Iorveth about-face. Before the elf could react with any countermeasure, Vernon slammed an open palm up high against Iorveth’s sternum, threatening to press the air out from within him. A moment of tense silence passed.

“You do not trust me.” Not an inquiry, but a stated, mutually felt fact. “But if you felt it necessary to keep me impotently chained to a wall, I would still be in your putrid dungeon.” Roche met Iorveth’s stare easily—the stare of an elf determined to not get fucked against the stonework. Iorveth need not say the words to convey the message clearly. _This was all **your** idea._

“You’ve already demonstrated your inability to mind your hands, squirrel. Your shackles are of your own doing.” As he spoke, Vernon let his hand slip from its firm hold. His touch trailed its way down Iorveth’s chest, fingers gracing past the elf’s stomach, until both hands found the leather tie of Iorveth’s trousers. There was no finesse from the commander in the way he pulled it loose. Iorveth’s pants pooled about his ankles, and as they did so, he pulled his arms down from above his head and put both palms upon Vernon’s chest once more. He chanced a step forward, his fingers dipping down past Roche’s abdomen to rest upon the belt at the commander’s waist. It’s a forward step that Vernon permits, and stepping back closes the distance between them and the bed. Iorveth proved amazingly dexterous despite his shackles as he first unlooped the twisted knot of the leather belt, then unbuckled it, letting it, and Roche’s sword, fall abandoned to the ground. There were a couple stray buttons to unclasp upon the commander’s shirt, unnecessary belts upon Vernon’s biceps that needed to be undone to further free the man’s clothing from him—and it wasn’t that Iorveth _couldn’t_ mind his hands. If anything, he minded them _too well_.

With one more backwards step, the bed met the back of Roche’s knees, and he sat, quick to catch the elf by the hips, lest Iorveth use the opportunity against him. He didn’t think the elf would attempt anything as reckless as escape, yet there was a discarded sword and an elf still on two feet, and Vernon felt painfully aware of the multitude of outcomes those two factors could equate to. Fortunately, Iorveth easily followed in Vernon’s wake, straddling the commander’s thighs in one smooth movement. He pushed his hands up the commander’s body, insistently, fingers slipping beneath the other man’s mail to push it upwards, exposing Roche’s flesh and simultaneously urging the man onto his back. Iorveth’s touch didn’t linger, though, and he pulled his hands back down, the rough brush of his shackles following in his wake, and with no hesitation, his fingers slipped into the tied loops that kept Vernon’s trousers laced. Languidly, he pulled inch by slow inch, his eye focused on Roche’s face. It’s a stare that he matches, gaze only broken to glance downwards once Iorveth pulls free his pants, easing the commander’s erection out into the open, and in his lapse of attention, Vernon misses the smirk that plays at the elf’s lips. 

“I’m almost sorry for you, that my hands are bound, but - _you do not trust me_ ,” and as he speaks, Iorveth wraps his long fingers around the other man’s cock, the languid stroke he offers intended to agonize, not satisfy. It’s enough to elicit a grunt from Vernon, and in turn, Iorveth exhaled an amused breath, and just as quickly, the grace of his touch abandons Roche’s dick. Iorveth’s next actions come quicker than his initial contact, though, and with fluid motion, he first spits into each palm before shifting himself forward ever so slightly, his own erection bobbing against Vernon’s. From there, his touch returned, this time administered with both hands, and in a firm, slick grip, he held their cocks together in his palms. His strokes came smooth, intended to satisfy himself as much as the man beneath him, and Vernon’s approval shows itself in the way his head lulls back and his hands grip the bedding beneath him—beautiful behavior of someone completely undeserving, or so Iorveth quietly considered. He didn’t _want_ to admire the strength in the lines of Roche’s neck nor the swell to the other man’s chest as Vernon clenched his teeth against unwanted vocalizations. And yet…

And yet Iorveth found himself relishing in the sensation of Vernon’s cock, thicker than his own, in hand. He could feel, deep within, the greedy pleasure of responsibility for eliciting the quiet ‘ _fuck_ ’ that slipped past Vernon’s lips. Iorveth keeps his strokes rhythmic, even when he lets one hand slip forward, his fingertips teasing through the pre-cum beaded at the tip of the other man’s erection. The idea crosses his mind—that he might manage the evening with Roche beneath him, indulging in the dh’oine’s basic carnal needs. 

Perhaps Iorveth wore his idle fantasizing too carelessly upon his face, though. Perhaps Roche reacted, instead, to the tint of flush that showed itself on Iorveth’s high cheekbones, visible beneath old scarring and fresh abrasions. Vernon grabbed him by the hips, pulling Iorveth forward, a move that the elf complied with. The commander’s hands were greedy, though, and shifted further back until he could take Iorveth’s ass in each palm. His hips shifted upward pressing his cock up against the elf’s backside, and in turn, Iorveth looked down upon the other man with vague indignation, though not disapproval.

“You are true to your kind, dh’oine. Impatient and without restraint.” Iorveth’s tone comes derisive, and he means to mock, but before he could utter a sharp _tsk_ , the man beneath him shifted rapidly. One of Roche’s hands was quick to take hold of the chain that bound Iorveth’s wrists together, the other pressed itself to the elf’s chest, shoving him upward and over. With no arms to catch himself by, the fragile balance Iorveth had possessed above Vernon was a lost in an instant. Falling upon the bed, at least, came in pleasant, plush contrast to the rest of the hits Iorveth had taken that day. Vernon is on him in an instant, though, hand hiking one of the elf’s legs upwards to give himself adequate room to shamelessly grind against Iorveth’s ass.

“I’m getting tired of your shitty tongue. I should have cut it out while I had the opportunity.” 

And they both knew that, save Iorveth’s own efforts, nothing existed to hinder Roche from yet committing the deed. Instead, he caught the elf’s mouth upon his own. Where their first contact within the dungeon had been fleeting and filthy, this kiss came hungry and ferocious. Their tongues catch, fleetingly, before they break, each man a breath short of air. Though a sneer paints itself across Iorveth’s lips, his arousal cannot go ignored between them.

“… Let us be glad that you didn’t.”


End file.
